Wishing Only Wounds the Heart
by Crookshanks.x
Summary: He's all she wants, but wishing only wounds the heart.


**A/N:** Writing has always been a sort of therapy for me, and this was one of those times where I wrote purely with my own personal goals in mind. I still feel a need to share, though. I guess it's part of the process.

**Wishing Only Wounds the Heart**

_You electrify my life_

_let's conspire to ignite_

It was ridiculous. Everything was absolutely bloody ridiculous. She had come to the point where she didn't know if it was better to be close to him or to get as far away as possible. Pining for him when he wasn't there may very well be torturous, but sitting next to him not being able to reach out, seeing his face so close yet not close enough – that really was the worst torture of it all. It was the bitter-sweet pain; the one she wanted and loathed at the very same time.

He sat next to her by the kitchen table in Grimmauld place, his arm brushing up against hers when he moved it as he spoke to Harry sitting opposite him. That in itself was of course absurd, but it had become the normality during the few months it had been since he took their side. He took it for selfish reasons, but he was still there. The day he had arrived at the headquarters as a more voluntary prisoner than they were used to had been the day her sanity left. She still hadn't seen it.

She shivered involuntarily when his arm brushed against hers again as he gesticulated to underline his point. That's all she got. That was all she _ever_ got; A chance brush of his arm or hand as they had dinner, as they wrote down plans, as he spoke. Her mind would be screaming for a touch and then there it would be; A random brush of his arm, his leg gracing hers as he moved it to stretch. And her body would shiver in delight before weeping in frustration at the shortness of the contact.

"Yaxley is a coward. I have no doubt we can use that to our advantage," he said in reply to something Harry had uttered previously.

She stole a glance at his features in profile as he spoke. His skin wasn't flawless, but it looked soft and warm. A slight scar followed the curve of his eyebrow and she felt the burning need to run her finger tenderly over it. His nose was straight, but ended just before it would've been too long, and the tip curved downwards to his lips. They moved slowly as he spoke in words she couldn't understand at the moment and the fullness in them was a trait she couldn't ignore. She wet her lips with the tip of her tongue wondering how they would feel. It bad been so long since she had felt _anyone's_ lips, let alone anyone she actually cared for romantically.

Her gaze moved from his face and rested on Harry sitting opposite them. He was safe ground. She watched as he spoke, but her mind didn't register the words. It was too busy being a traitorous wanker fantasizing about soft lips, almost unnaturally light blond hair and how the hand on the table in front of him would feel in hers. She wanted to scream. She wanted to weep. She wanted to break free from this ridiculous curse and get back to her normally well-functioning mind. There was so much she wanted. She wanted him. She wanted peace of mind. She wanted to be someone else; someone he could love.

"Oh Merlin, let's not discuss this any more. It's wearing me out," Harry groaned, leaning back in his chair.

"Oh no, please. Let's talk about Death Eaters some more," she replied dryly. "I really haven't had enough death and destruction lately."

He turned towards her and laughed – a sound she definitely hadn't been accustomed to and it may be the one thing that made her go even more weak in the ... knees (oh, who was she kidding? She was weak all over). As his laughter subsided it rested back into a smile and she smiled back, her chest doing something strange when she noticed the wrinkles by his eyes. She nearly whimpered. She loved those wrinkles – those charming lines from his eyes as he smiled. It made him look alive.

It was driving her mad to be so close yet to know that he wasn't hers. He occupied her mind every living second and she would fantasize about what he would say, what his lips would feel like, what she'd mean to him – and then she'd focus her eyes and move back into reality only to crash right into the knowledge that she would never have him. He would never be hers. All she would ever have from him were these stolen moments by his side at the kitchen table. She cherished them and hated them all at the same time.

She had missed their conversation again, but apparently she had said something half-way clever because he was smiling at her again and then he rose from his seat with a stretch of his arms.

"Have a good night, guys," he drawled and she smelled his cologne as he brushed past her.

The warmth from him was gone immediately and she wanted to run after him. She looked after him for a brief second before turning towards Harry to continue the conversation she wasn't paying attention to at all. It wasn't like it mattered. Nothing mattered. She would never be his. Yes, he had come to their side, but she was still a muggle-born and even if he tolerated her as a friend he would never want a relationship with one. And she hadn't grown into a remarkably beautiful woman. She was ordinary. Her hair was as bushy as ever, her body was nothing except completely ordinary and her eyes had never stood out. She was downright plain. Pain flickered in her chest like a scalding hot tongue. She was ordinary. She wasn't good enough and she never would be.

She loved everything about him and he would never look at her as anything but the annoying mudblood who somehow became an acquaintance along the path. All she would have were those few stolen moments when he'd brush his arm against hers at chance, when he'd smile at her for something she managed to belt out in a moment of clarity; Those moments she loved and hated so passionately at the same time. Now that he wasn't there she wanted him to sit next to her again, even if she could picture his face almost perfectly in her mind. She could still remember the little wink he gave her last week when they had been pulling a prank on Harry. She could still remember the flutter it had caused. It was amazing and horrendous at the very same time. It was longing and expectations mixed with the disappointments of the real world and the knowledge that he never felt the same way. It was giving someone so much of you when they just couldn't give you anything back.

It was hoping so desperately for a miracle when you knew in your heart that you just weren't good enough.

_Every so often we long to steal_

_to the land of what-might-have-been_

_but that doesn't soften the ache we feel_

_when reality sets back in_

**A/N II:** Sorry for the gloominess. Or, you know what? I'm not going to apologise for it. Life doesn't have happy endings.

Lyrics at the top from _Starlight_ by Muse

Title and second batch of lyrics from _I'm Not That Girl_ from the musical Wicked.


End file.
